In the darkness of the room at the end of the hall, Sherlock was not asleep. Fully alert after having tongued his pills, he lay in silence and listened for all the little sounds of the other patients and employees of Wellington to fade into nothing. His fingertips tapping lightly together, his gaze trained blankly at the imperfections lining the ceiling. A soft breath and muffled snore came from the bed beside his own, drawing his attentions for a moment.

John was shifting in his sleep, as he often did on the cusp of a nightmare, little twitches as he fought the demons within his own subconscious. The smallest of whimpers had Sherlock out of his bed, his sheet resting lightly around his shoulders as he brought a hand to rest against John's arm, shaking him gently.

'John..." He whispered, nudging him again. "John, wake up. It's time to go."

"Sher'k" Muffled into the pillow as he slowly woke, became aware of his limbs once more, and the sticky feeling of sleep drool on his face, John turned to lie on his back and blinked away the remnants of his dreams. "Already?"

"Did you tongue your pills? Are you alright to join me?"

John nodded, sitting up to rub the sleep from his eyes and the haze from his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine. Where are we going?"

"The boiler room where the boy was found. I need to see the crime scene, but we don't have long before someone makes rounds. We will have to hurry." He smiled slightly and threw his sheet back on his bed, creeping to the door to crack it open just a bit. The hallway was empty and the other doors were all closed for the night, not even the evening security seemed to be paying much attention from his post. Sherlock turned to regard John with a glance as his shorter friend slowly removed himself from his bed, stretched and limped carefully up behind him. "Ready?"

"How did he do it, John?" Sherlock whispered as they slowly made their way through several doors, a few staircases (that were harder for John), and a number of narrow halls. "How does he make them take the poison?"

"Maybe… maybe he doesn't. It is a hospital, plenty of people here that are disturbed enough to take their own lives. Even I..." He paused, shaking his head, "The point is that, maybe they weren't murdered..."

"No... It was murder. There has to be something." They stopped as they came to the boiler room, and Sherlock was almost surprised to find it unlocked. It would have made more sense if it had been bolted shut, made inaccessible to any curiously prying eyes. He pushed it open slowly, carefully stepping inside as he glanced through the shadows for absolutely anything of importance. An almost overwhelming sense of disappointment coming over him as at first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary for a boiler room. Rusted and leaking pipes dripping water and hissing steam, spider webs, bits of rodent excrement, and dust; so much dust. A faint clattering from a far corner snapped his attention to full alert, John going rigid at his side. "...wait here..."

"Sherlock, wait." John had reached out, grasping the smallest bit of his friend's shirt sleeve between his fingertips. "Just...wait. What if you're right...?"

"Of course I'm right."

"Yes well, if you are right and this was murder, it isn't the best idea to just...go off into a dark basement by yourself where said murderer could be." He frowned and glanced about the room, looking for shifting shadows and expecting to see some wild eyed madman looking back at them.

"It's alright, John." He offered, wrapping his long fingers around John's trembling hand to still it, and like that, he turned and began making his way through a twisting maze of metal and pillars. In an instant John was left on his own in a creepy boiler room, with only the knocking pipes to keep him company.

"...Sherlock..."

Dust is eloquent, Sherlock had always thought, you can move any object in a room and place it back just so, but dust will never deceive you. It only, and always, speaks the truth of moments long gone, keeping careful record across every surface. A pattern of footprints, the empty places across ledges and shelving where a hand rested for just a moment, the gaps where someone had been leaning against a pillar and then slid to sit on the floor. Sherlock could stand in the middle of a room, and tell you exactly what happened there, hours before, simply by studying the dust, or lack thereof.

He followed a path of footprints, making note of which ones belonged to those who came to fetch the body of the boy, which were the boy's, and which simply didn't make sense in their existence. A pipe hissed nearby, a jet of steam filling the area with the tang of rust and metal, the fixtures creaking as water was pulled through the system. Sherlock raised a hand to cover his mouth and stifle a cough, leaning down to get a better view of the shoe prints through the haze of evaporating liquid. They led away from the scene, through a tangle of pipes, and into a small back room. Curious, as there were no other footprints to say that it was normal for someone to go there, not even a maintenance personnel or janitor.

Sherlock blinked away an odd sort of feeling behind his eyes, taking in a quick breath as he followed the prints and peered cautiously around the edge of the doorframe. He saw nothing, at first, just shadows and bits of light from fading bulbs. But in the corner, a figure stood and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

A woman, slender and tall, with an abundance of dark curls cascading over her shoulders, stood staring at him with a soulless gaze. Her features, sharp and handsome, her prominent cheekbones stained red, as was the rest of her. She raised a hand to him, slowly pointing towards the boy in the doorway as blood dripped from her wrist, puddling at her feet.

"You did this, Sherlock." She called to him, "You killed me."

"Mum..."

"You did this! You did this!"

He turned as fast as his feet would carry him, nearly stumbling over a bit of pipe as he ran through the expanse of the boiler room. Only John's arms stopped him running any further, his friend shaking him gently as he trembled, stammered, and tugged at his own hair. "We have to go, John, quickly."

Sherlock shook off the concerned grasp, taking off at a sprint up the stairs. Undeterred by a limp, John ran after him.

"Sherlock…" John managed as the door to their room closed behind them. He watched as his friend furiously paced the small amount of floor they had, shaking his hands around to stop the trembling of his fingers, muttering quietly under his breath. With a hand through his curls, Sherlock finally sat at the edge of his bed and took to staring at his fingers. "What did you see?"

"Look, John..." He said quietly, holding out one hand to show the amount of tremors that shook it. A nervous laugh falling from his lips as he blinked heavily and pulled in an uneven breath. "I'm...afraid..."

"What did you see...?"

"The impossible..." He shook his head as if it would shake the image from his mind, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the palm of his hands. "I can't trust my own eyes; I don't know what is real. I saw her, she was there..."

"Who did you see?"

"I don't even know if you're real." There was a choked sob at his lips as John sat beside him, his breathing rapid and uneven as John took his hand. He looked up, with eyes wide in terror and confusion, and found nothing but comfort staring back at him. Slowly, he linked their fingers together and found solidity in the squeeze that was given in return.

"I'm real, and I want to help..."

"You've made great improvements in the last few weeks, John." The doctor started simply, flipping through various pages of the file with his name on it, making notes where he saw fit. "You and Sherlock are getting on better than you expected? You've become friends."

"Mhm."

"Your limp is gone, and you've been speaking." He noted aloud as he read through the pages upon pages of recent documentation. A quiet hum at his lips as the good doctor glanced up from the scribbled words to regard the boy standing at the window. "If this continues, John, and I hope it does, do you know what that means?"

John glanced away from the window only for a moment, realization of what was to follow oddly condemning. He should be delighted at the prospect, thrilled, bouncing off the bloody walls, but he could only feel a cold grip of foreboding digging its fingernails into the core of him.

"You'll be able to go home, John." The doctor paused and sat back in his chair, folding his fingers together as he watched John's attention go back to the window and those out in the courtyard below. He was intrigued at the unexpected reaction to the news being given, where he expected far more delight. "Aren't you glad, John?"

"Yes." He stated quietly, the whole of his attention drawn to the curious scene below where Sherlock and Jim Moriarty stood shoulder to shoulder in rapt conversation. John let his hand rest against the cold glass, watching as the heat from his skin left behind a steamed outline. "…Of course."

The Personal Journal of John Hamish Watson, Age 19.

November 24th.

I told him what the doctor said, and he said very little to me in those following days, though he said very little to anyone at all. In fact, if I am remembering it correctly, the only words that ever passed his lips were "Piss off, Lestrade." I didn't mind, since our friendship wasn't based on our long and life changing conversations with each other. He still played his violin as often as they would let him, and I would read through the books that I was allowed to keep in our room. Looking back on it now, I almost wish I had made more of an effort to talk to him while I had the chance. There was so much about him that I didn't know, so many questions that I never thought to ask, and so many things I never had the courage to say.

It was a Tuesday when he finally broke his silence, and set in motion those unforgettable events.

"I solved the case." He muttered softly, shattering the silence of weeks passed, almost dejected at his own genius and it was unsettling to John. Gone was the brilliant glow and vibrant light that followed his brilliance. It was as if the solution to the final problem ghosting around in his head was one that he had rather wished not to have worked out at all. John's hand found Sherlock's and without a word, he allowed himself to entangle his fingers around those of his friends. The commons room grew silent to the two boys as they sat together on the sofa, the world ceasing to exist around them for one glorious moment. There were no suspicious suicides, there was no Jim Moriarty whispering hateful things in dark shadows, there was no impending separation due to one clean bill of health. It was just them and one unexpected friendship. "When are you expected to leave?"

All good things, as they say.

"Monday." John glanced at him at the slight squeeze to his fingers, not knowing whether it was a vague attempt at clinging to him, or perhaps a small show of comfort. Regardless, he returned the innocuous action. "Was it him, Sherlock? Moriarty?"

"Mm." The quiet hum of his lips said yes and no all at the same time, but little more was broached on the topic as more patients and nurses began milling around in preparation for the day's events. He fell suspiciously silent on his revelations, and John could do little more than lose himself in the feel of Sherlock's hand beneath the pad of his thumb. "You've been brilliant, John. I've never had a real friend before you."

"Sherlock..?"

"No matter what happens, never forget that. Promise me."

John stared at his friend, anchored to the moment by the warmth of his skin and the slight pressure of their hands pressed together. He nodded, just once, but said nothing as the staff signaled for lunch. Sherlock's hand slipped away from his own as his friend stood from the sofa, leaving John to wonder why it felt like that would be the last time they'd ever sit together.

The Personal Journal of John H. Watson

January 15th

He disappeared to our rooms for a while before the nurses came to take him to see the doctor; he missed lunch and then supper as well. When he wasn't there at lights out, I knew that whatever he had figured out was far bigger than the games of Jim Moriarty and whomever else he had working with him to torment the patients. I had no idea the scope of it, though, and looking back I am certain that my ignorance was intentional by Sherlock. The less I knew, the safer I was, he must have figured. He was always such a selfish git.

I did see him once more before I left Wellington. One final goodbye.

Back from a very long hiatus.

Thanks for reading, and if you ever want to bother me to finish a fic, you can find me on tumblr. this-is-a-fandom-blog

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